


Not-So-Secret Admirer

by vintagelilacs



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Fluff, M/M, POV Alternating, Pre-Relationship, Valentine's Day, sherlock that's not how confessions work
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-28
Updated: 2018-01-28
Packaged: 2019-03-05 18:23:13
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,818
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13393605
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vintagelilacs/pseuds/vintagelilacs
Summary: In which Sherlock is secretly a romantic, and John is really quite clueless.





	Not-So-Secret Admirer

Sherlock's latest experiment seems to be progressing well. It's just a shame that the decay rate of eyeballs is typically between 1-2 weeks. He hopes his interest doesn't dwindle before then. Waiting is such a dull _sine qua non_ of life.

A loud expulsion of breath interrupts his thoughts. Sherlock's face pinches in irritation as he regards his flatmate. John is currently scowling as he rifles through one of his magazines. The line between his brows grows more pronounced with every page. Sherlock has explained to him countless times that the magazine is targeted for women, but John refuses to see reason. 

“Sod this!" He exclaims. Sherlock's eyes flicker once more in his direction, trying to convey as much annoyance in a three-second glance as possible. "Love’s just a sham. A conspiracy so we all empty our wallets on Valentine’s roses and chocolates.”

“Wrong.”

“What?” 

“Still think you don't need a hearing aid?” Sherlock queries.

“Oh no, I heard you, I'm just not entirely sure I heard you correctly.”

Oh, how tedious it is having to repeat one's self. “I said you're wrong. Love is real.”

John’s mouth moves soundlessly for several seconds, presumably before he can remember how to make words come out of it. “You, of all people, are a romantic?”

“Please," he scoffs. "Love is a chemical reaction in the brain. It's irrefutably real.” 

"Sorry, but are you not the same man who said love was a chemical defect?" 

"John, you never listen. I said _sentiment_ is a chemical defect." 

"And love's not?" John clarifies. 

"Recent data would suggest that it is indeed not." Sherlock's annoyance gives way to confusion. “Did you never have to take a chemistry class for your doctorate?”

John makes an affronted noise. Really, he can be so sensitive sometimes. Is it annoying? Yes. Endearing? Well, sometimes. 

“Yes, of course I took a chemistry class! Multiple, in fact. You might be pleased to know I happened to excel in them.”

“Mm I doubt that.”

“You’re seriously arguing with me about _my_ chemistry grades? You don't even know what marks I got.”

“The grade you received is irrelevant. I doubt any of your chemistry professors had any real prowess in the field, so whatever grades they doled out carry little weight." Sherlock steeples his fingers. "But I do agree with your view on Valentine's Day. It's utterly fatuous to celebrate a natural chemical process, and equally absurd to designate such a celebration to an arbitrary date. In fact, I propose that when Valentine's Day arrives, we don't acknowledge it.” That should spare him a headache. 

"Sherlock," John sighs. "Today's date is February Fourteenth." 

"No, that can't be right. Last I checked it was January." 

"Well, then last you checked must have been over two weeks ago." 

"Where ever does the time go?" 

John mutters under his breath. “You said you believe in love, but what about being _in_ love? Any wisdom to impart in that area?”

Sherlock chooses to go mysteriously deaf, which is not an altogether uncommon occurrence.

“Right, well, I just think it would be bloody nice to not spend a Valentine's Day alone, y'know? Maybe to have someone else buy the flowers and heart-shaped confections for once!”

With that, he storms out of the apartment. How inconvenient. Sherlock was planning on requesting John to bring him his laptop sometime within the next hour. Now he'll have to wait. 

* * *

John trudges up the stairs, weary after a grueling day at the clinic. His most interesting client of the day had been a man planning on proposing to his girlfriend. He'd been so anxious about the ordeal that he'd given himself a stomach ulcer. Poor sod. 

John divests himself of his coat, when his gaze snags on the table. A tray of heart-shaped cookies have been set out. Oh, bless her heart, she didn't have to do that.

“Sherlock!" He calls. "Come and try some. Mrs. Hudson left us cookies.”

He selects a cookie topped with carefully applied icing and a light dusting of sprinkles. The texture is soft, and the cookie is still warm from the oven. He groans around the first mouthful. Mrs. Hudson's really outdone herself. 

Sherlock pads into the kitchen with silent steps, and John senses rather than hears him. John swivels to greet his flatmate, but the detective's countenance gives him pause. Sherlock eyes the platter with a pinched expression, his mouth curled distastefully.

“Come on," John coaxes. "You probably haven't had anything to eat all day.”

“I don't want some poorly made cookies,” Sherlock sneers.

“Be a little grateful, yeah? These were made with love.”

Sherlock’s eyes glaze over a bit. “No, they were made with one and a half cups of butter, two cups of white sugar, four eggs, a teaspoon of vanilla, five cups of flour, two teaspoons of baking powder, and a teaspoon of salt.”

"You deduced the exact recipe simply by looking at the cookies?" 

"I don't look, I observe," Sherlock sniffs.

“You’re hopeless.” Not that he's surprised, of course. He's well accustomed to his flatmate's idiosyncrasies by now. Grabbing a second cookie, John flicks on the telly, resigning himself to a quiet and lonely evening. He channel surfs for a few minutes, before settling on one of the hundreds of cheesy Valentine's day romcoms currently airing. 

The cushion beside him dips, and he's surprised to see Sherlock perched beside him. Odd to be accompanied while watching the telly, but John supposes it's not outside the realm of possibility for Sherlock to languish on the couch. He returns his attention to the screen, only to nearly flinch out of his skin a second later. 

Sherlock's stretches his arm, extending it behind John. The movement catches him by surprise. 

“Is your shoulder sore?” he wonders, his brow pleating in concern.

“No,” Sherlock pouts, instantly withdrawing his arm. 

"Oh. Alright." If he wasn't so used to Sherlock's displays of erratic behaviour, he'd be a trifle concerned. Instead, he allows himself to be lulled by the cheesy romcoms that every channel seems desperate to shove at him.

Sherlock suddenly vaults to his feet, the movement so jerky and sudden John wonders if he's having a spasm. 

"You alright?" 

"Fine," Sherlock brushes aside his concern. "Merely forgot something. One moment." He flies from the room only to return with a potted plant. He places it proudly on the coffee table in front of them. 

“What’s that?” John questions.

“A rare flower that only grows in tropical climates and coastal regions. I’ve heard it's quite beautiful when it blooms. Also extremely poisonous, so be mindful.”

“Poisonous? And you What? Picked it up at the grocery store?”

“Don’t be daft. I smuggled it from Indonesia months ago.”

"Ah, of course. Silly me." He shakes his head. 

They lapse into silence, the telly providing the only sound in the flat. Sherlock is surprisingly the one to break the period of quiet. It's yet another oddity, given that he's usually disinclined to initiate conversation unless a case is involved. 

“What do you think?”

“Hmm?” John tears his eyes from the screen.

“The flower,” he says shortly. “What do you think?”

“Oh. It’s erm. Nice?” Or it will be when it blooms, assuming it's as lovely as Sherlock claimed.

Sherlock’s lips twitch in a rare smile that John’s not altogether sure what to make of. It takes him a while to wrench his eyes away. His heart rate's a little fast after their shared eye-contact, but that's a detail he's planning on keeping to himself. 

“Did you have a pleasant Valentine’s?” Sherlock questions. 

“Well, I did spend it alone,” John points out slowly, uncertain what to make of Sherlock's impromptu questioning. 

Sherlock throws up his hands dramatically. “My God, John, you are impossible to please.”

“ _Me?_ I’m the one here who’s impossible to please?”

“You listed three criteria for a perfect Valentine’s. All of which were met.”

“Yeah... I'm not following.”

“Not following," Sherlock mutters. "You're denser than osmium sometimes, I swear. You requested: Heart-shaped confections—there wasn't time to make truffles, so I settled with homemade cookies—followed by flowers. There is an extremely rare type of flower sitting on the coffee table. And lastly, you said you didn't want to spend Valentine's alone. I sat with you on the couch while you watched some brainless drivel on the telly.”

John flounders for words. “You… oh god, Sherlock. You made the cookies. Y-you did all that for me?”

Sherlock adjusts his rumpled collar, looking as if he’d rather be anywhere but here. 

“Why?" John presses. He's not letting him off that easy. "Why did you go to so much trouble for me?”

“Because from the moment I saw you my brain manufactured phenylethylamine, norepinephrine and dopamine. Now it produces an abundance of oxytocin and serotonin.”

John has studied enough chemistry to know what Sherlock is implying. He's admitting to being attracted to John, and... oh lord, being in love with him? Did he understand that right? He swallows heavily. “That might just be the most bloody beautiful confession I've ever received. Wait that—that was a confession, right?”

“Obviously,” Sherlock heaves a long suffering sigh. “I thought we'd established that already.”

"You seriously... you never even hinted that you felt that way. About me." 

"I've taken you out to dinner on multiple occasions, I frequently maintain eye-contact with you for more than five seconds at a time to suggest attraction, I make an effort to keep my body tilted towards you when we interact, and I initiate a plethora of lingering but non-intrusive physical contact. Like I said, John. You are denser than osmium. That's the densest element, in case you weren't aware." 

"Yes, I know that!" John cries, his face radiating heat. He feels giddy, but from nerves or excitement, he's not sure. Sherlock tilts his head, his eyes riveting on John's expression. Those pale eyes capture every emotion he broadcasts on his face, before likely filing them away for later examination. 

John fumbles for an adequate response, but luckily, Sherlock's phone chooses that precise moment to go off, sparing him from having to answer properly to Sherlock's spontaneous confession.

“John, you won't believe it!" He crows, his pale eyes sparking with excitement. "Three woman have already been murdered. It seems the raspberry filling in a popular brand of chocolate hearts was poisoned!”

“I'll get my coat,” John sighs.

"Oh, this is just terrific! Can you imagine anything more perfect?"

John can think of a few things, yeah. Being snogged senseless, for one. 

Sherlock throws on his coat and hastily loops his scarf around his neck. John really doesn't have it in him to tell Sherlock not to look so damned excited about a serial murder. Instead, he slips his hand in Sherlock’s, allowing himself to be pulled into yet another mystery, and supposes that the both of them have had a rather perfect Valentine's Day after all.

**Author's Note:**

> this is my first little foray into the Sherlock fandom so feedback would be lovely <3
> 
> I've also made a (mainly) sherlock sideblog on tumblr over @ vintage--lilacs


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